“It happens,” the cook said in Lagoan. Then he switched to Sibian with a lower-class accent he wouldn’t have learned in schooclass="underline" “My father was a fisherman who found he was making more money in Setubal than back on the five islands, so he settled here. He married a Lagoan lady, but I grew up speaking both languages.”
“Ah. I got out when Mezentio’s men overran Tirgoviste town,” Cornelu said, relishing the chance to use his own tongue. He nodded to the waitress, really noticing her for the first time. “And you-do you speak Sibian, too?”
“I follow it,” she answered in Lagoan. “Speak a little.” That was Sibian, a good deal more Lagoan-flavored than her father’s. She returned to the language with which she was obviously more familiar: “Now let’s get your dinner taken care of. I’ll bring the ale first off.”
It was strong and nutty and good. The crab cakes, when they came, reminded Cornelu of home. He ate them and the sweet, sweet rhubarb pie with real enjoyment. And speaking Sibian with the cook and his daughter was indeed enjoyable, too. The man’s name was Balio, which might almost have been Sibian; his daughter was called Janira, a name as Lagoan as any Cornelu could imagine.
“This is all wonderful,” he said. “You should have more customers.” He was, at the moment, the only one in the place, which was why he could go on speaking Sibian.
“It’ll get livelier tonight,” Balio said. “We have a pretty fair evening crowd.”
Janira winked at Cornelu. “You just have to come back here and eat up everything we’ve got. Then we’ll get rich.”
She spoke Lagoan, but he could answer in Sibian: “You’ll get rich, and I’ll get fat.” He laughed. He didn’t laugh very often these days; he could feel his face twisting in ways it wasn’t used to. “Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.” Janira laughed, too.
Qutuz said, “The Marquis Balastro is here to see you, your Excellency.” His nostrils twitched. He ached to say more; Hajjaj could tell as much.
And, since his visitor was the minister from Algarve. . “Let me guess,” Hajjaj said. “Has he come to call in what we Zuwayzin would reckon proper costume?”
“Aye,” his secretary answered, and rolled his eyes. “It’s not customary.”
“He’ll do it now and again anyhow,” Hajjaj said.
“I wish he wouldn’t,” Qutuz said. “He’s very pale, the parts of him his clothes usually cover. And-he’s mutilated, you know.” For a moment, the secretary cupped a protective hand over the organ to which he was referring.
“Algarvians have that done when they turn fourteen,” Hajjaj said calmly. “They call it a rite of manhood.”
Qutuz rolled his eyes again. “And they reckon us barbarians because we don’t drape ourselves in cloth!” Hajjaj shrugged; that had occurred to him, too, every now and again. With a sigh, his secretary said, “Shall I show him in?”
“Oh, by all means, by all means,” the Zuwayzi foreign minister answered. “I must admit, I’m not broken-hearted about avoiding tunic and kilt myself. It’s a hot day.” In Bishah, home of hot days, that was a statement to conjure with.
Having seen Balastro’s portly, multicolored form undraped before, Hajjaj knew what to expect. Zuwayzin took nudity for granted. Balastro wore bareness as theatrically as he wore clothes. “Good day, your Excellency!” he boomed. “Lovely weather you’re having here-if you’re fond of bake ovens, anyhow.”
“It is a trifle warm,” Hajjaj replied; he wouldn’t admit to a foreigner what he’d conceded to Qutuz. “You will of course take tea and wine and cakes with me, sir?”
“Of course,” Balastro said, a little sourly. The Zuwayzi ritual of hospitality was designed to keep people from talking business too soon. But, since Balastro had chosen Zuwayzi costume, or lack of same, he could hardly object to following the other customs of Hajjaj’s kingdom.
In any case, Balastro seldom objected to food or wine. He ate and drank- and sipped enough tea for politeness’ sake-and made small talk while the refreshments sat on a silver tray between him and Hajjaj. Only after Qutuz came in and carried away the tray did the Algarvian minister lean forward from the nest of cushions he’d constructed. Even then, polite still, he waited for Hajjaj to speak first.
Hajjaj wished he could avoid that, but custom bound him as it had bound Balastro. Leaning forward himself, he inquired, “And how may I serve you today?”
Balastro laughed, which mortified him; he hadn’t wanted his reluctance to show. The Algarvian minister said, “You think I’ve come to give you a hard time about the cursed Kaunian refugees, don’t you?”
“Well, your Excellency, I would be lying if I said the thought had not crossed my mind,” Hajjaj replied. “If you have not come for that reason, perhaps you will tell me why you have. Whatever the reason may be, I shall do everything in my power to accommodate you.”
Balastro laughed again, this time louder and more uproariously. He wiped his eyes on his hairy forearm. “Forgive me, I beg, but that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in a long time,” he said. “You’ll do whatever suits you best, and then you’ll try to convince me it was for my own good.”
“You do me too much honor, sir, by giving me your motives,” Hajjaj said dryly, which made Balastro laugh some more. Smiling himself, the Zuwayzi foreign minister went on, “Why have you come, then?”
Now the jovial mask dropped from Balastro’s face. “To speak plainly, your Excellency, I have come to ask Zuwayza to get off the fence.”
“I beg your pardon?” Hajjaj raised a polite eyebrow.
“Get off the fence,” Balastro repeated. “You have fought this war with your own interest uppermost. You could have struck Unkerlant harder blows than you have, and you know it as well as I do. You’ve fought Swemmel, aye, but you’ve also looked to keep him in the fight against us. You would sooner we wear each other out, because that would mean we’d leave you alone.”
He was, of course, perfectly correct. Hajjaj had no intention of admitting as much. “Did we not hope for an Algarvian victory, we should never have cooperated with King Mezentio’s forces in the war against Unkerlant,” he said stiffly.
“You haven’t cooperated any too bloody much as is,” Balastro said. “You’ve done what you wanted to do all along: you’ve taken as much territory as you wanted to, and you’ve let our dragons and our behemoths help you take it and help you hold it. But when it comes to giving us a real hand-well, how much of a hand have you given us? About this much, it seems to me.” He thrust out two fingers in a crude Algarvian gesture Hajjaj had often seen and almost as often used in his university days back in Trapani.
“It is as well we have been friends,” Hajjaj said, his voice even more distant than before. “There are men with whom, were they to offer me such insult, I would continue discussions only through common friends.”
Balastro snorted. “We’d be a fine pair for dueling, wouldn’t we? We’d probably set the notion of defending one’s honor back about a hundred years if we went after each other.”
“I was serious, sir,” Hajjaj said. One of the reasons he was serious was that the Algarvian minister had once more spoken nothing but the truth. “His Majesty has lived up to the guarantees he gave you through me at the beginning of this campaign, and has done so in every particular. If you say he has not, I must tell you I would consider you a liar.”
“Are you trying to get me to challenge you, your Excellency?” Balastro said. “I might, except you’d probably choose something like camel dung as a weapon.”
“No, I think I’d prefer royal proclamations,” Hajjaj answered. “They are without question both more odorous and more lethal.”
“Heh. You’re a witty fellow, your Excellency; I’ve thought so for years,” the Algarvian minister said. “But all your wit won’t get you out of the truth: the war has changed since it began. It is not what it was when it began.” Corpulence and nudity didn’t keep him from striking a dramatic pose. “Now it is plain that, when all is said and done, either Algarve will be left standing or Unkerlant will. You have sought middle ground. I tell you, there is none to be had.”